


Bird's Eye View

by cobblepologist



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bars and Pubs, Crushes, Death Threats, Falling In Love, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Paranoia, Pining, Shyness, after all its still oswald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:18:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: Constantly surrounded by beautiful men, slender things, black and white and handsome all over. Like something out of a silent film. Your eyes never go to them, only to the man they surround. Small, like he was constructed entirely of bird bones.MLM Oswald/Reader.





	Bird's Eye View

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikikcr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikikcr/gifts).



> a tiny playlist:  
> gangsta's paradise - postmodern jukebox  
> nancy from now on - father john misty
> 
> this is so thirsty im so sorry.

They call him King.

Even in defeat, there is something triumphant about him. And in triumph, something indomnitable.

Of course you've heard of him. Who in all of Gotham hasn't heard of the Penguin? Let them hate him so long as they fear him, or so it's said. He has stood on the mountain and he has been impaled by the ladder. And yet he keeps coming back. People talk, and it's not hard for you to chart this plot, map out the vital lines the King of Gotham has walked. The grapevine grows into your home and you find out where he's been, from lackey to nightclub owner to mob boss to mayor to this. Gotham is a town of happenings, after all.

Even if this were less than a fixation, you don't think you'd be able to take your mind off of him. You wonder how many other boys sit there, at their desk jobs, dazzled by the glamour of their sovereign. You've seen his face on everything from wanted to campaign to missing posters and oh, how _pretty_.

The Iceberg Lounge might be a palace, if such a thing can exist in Gotham. Rippling out of the ground like a testament, a monument, a pillar to ambition. This glittering thing. _My name is Oswald, king of kings; Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair._

Lounge singers and jazz bands and men and women dressed to the nines, all tens, and all you can look at is _him_. Constantly surrounded by beautiful men, slender things, black and white and handsome all over. Like something out of a silent film. Your eyes never go to them, only to the man they surround. Small, like he was constructed entirely of bird bones.

You sit at the bar, the seats beside you empty. Most of the people here want to socialize, to bask in the elegance of the club, with its high ceilings and iceshine chandeliers. Some even afford private rooms, and you know better than to question it. So you sit alone, enjoying the music.

You only snap out of this dream, this haze, when someone passes by, takes the seat next to you. It's him. He says something like a faint "hello" to the bartender. It doesn't take long for him to notice your shock. Or your staring, perhaps.

"Mr. Cobblepot," you say, "can I buy you a drink?" The words slip out of your mouth and into the air, like ice into steam. Sublimation. You want to swallow the water back down and drown in it when he looks at you.

He looks at you curiously, examines you like someone shopping for clothes. Like you're inconsequential. "This is my club. I don't need someone to buy drinks for me." As if you didn't know.

You breathe. "Yes, but I'd like to." He could slit your throat if he even thought you were insulting him.

Something cousin to amusement flashes across his face. "Alright then. I'll have a whiskey."

He is lucky he went into this business, you suppose. He downs drinks like he's pouring one out for everyone he's killed. You can't look away. You notice the details of his suit, the delicate fold of his pocket square and the almost invisible pinstripes. It's as if someone put him together by hand.

"I must confess, I don't do this very often," he eventually says, looking at his glass. His hair is impeccable, slicked soft. The kind of black that belongs in a nightclub.

"Drink?"

He laughs at that, something soft and genuine. "No, I mean... I don't make a habit of sitting down with my patrons."

It's your turn to laugh, and he turns his head, squinting somewhat as if he's angry. He thinks you're mocking him, you vaguely realize, when his hand clenches around his glass. "Oh come on," you smile. "I'm sure you have to have people lining up to buy you drinks. Look at you."

Wide-eyed, like you've taken him off-guard. No bodyguards in sight. He looks away again, the subtlest hint of red on his face. You've ruffled his feathers, and he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, setting himself straight. "Y-you'd be surprised."

"Maybe you just don't notice it," you say. Liquid courage, they say, when the wine flows like water here. "If you're looking at the stars, how can you notice everyone else looking at you?" You wane poetic, wax pathetic. Immediately, you regret saying it, and you start off again. "Mr. Cobblepot, I mean, Penguin, sir, I'm sorry-"

You see the way he looks back at you, blinking, mouth agape. Well and truly flustered. "Th-that's alright, I, um-" He takes a minute to collect himself. "You can call my Oswald, if you wish."

"Oswald," you try it on for size, enunciating, getting used to the weight of it in your mouth.

He awkwardly attempts to direct his attention back to his bartender, waving a hand for him to bring him another whiskey. You chalk up his openess to the alcohol and pure luck. Part of you is still unable to believe that you're sitting next to the Penguin.

You talk for a time, trying your best to entertain him. His time is precious, so you have to be, too. Something about his smile, the way his posture starts to slump a little, reminds you that he is human, real. Not just some horror story cops tell each other, a cautionary tale from mobster to criminal.

You didn't expect this kind of shyness from him, from someone so concentrated, carefully put together and arranged. This museum of a man. Even as you look at him and the band blares and the people swirl around you, all you can think about is the way his lips press together gently. "If you'd like... Perhaps we could go to my office for a nightcap?"

"Do you not make a habit of this, either?"

He shakes his head, having regained his composure. Put back together. Like a car crash in reverse. "I do not. But if you don't want to-"

"No, I do." You lick your lips, dryness spreading across your tongue and teeth. Maybe he's only doing this because he's been drinking. You take what you can get.

His office feels more spacious, even if it is much smaller than the club itself. The deprivation of people makes it seem so much more jarring. Opulence at its finest.

Much more content now, he pours you another drink, something more intimate. His own liquor. Even the thought of sharing something like this with him makes you shiver. You both sit in the armchairs he has off to the side of the room, and you watch him as he leans back, somehow relaxes himself.

"Is," Oswald interrupts, suddenly tilting his head, face worried, "is this a date?" You blink, his confusion becoming yours, and he says, "I apologize, I don't have much experience in this department, and... I'm not entirely sure what your intentions with me are."

And how could he? You couldn't blame him for being wary, with the amount of people who must have made attempts on his life. But he was expressing a kind of vulnerability to you. Too easy to trust people, or so you've heard. "Oh, well, I was hoping... I like you very much, Oswald."

He stands, frowns. "Surely it can't be because of my looks, or my personality," he says. There's an edge to his tone that wasn't there before. "Is it the money? Power? Something else? Did someone send you?"

"What do you mean?" Your eyebrows furrow. "You're very handsome, and I really enjoy talking to you. I just..." You look down at your drink, teeth clenching. A feeling creeps up behind you, worming its way into your chest.

He laughs, but there is no joy in it. "That certainly is rich. What do you want from me?"

"I want a date."

Oswald watches you for a minute, hand resting on his cane. Before you can process it, there's a knife at your neck, and you're flush against the back of the chair. He is so close to you, face in front of yours. "I could kill you so easily," he says, "and you ask me for that?"

You can barely hear him through the blood in your ears. You're shaking, but you bring a hand up to the arm that holds the knife, trembling as you hold it. What can you say? You imagine it must be hard to placate him like this, imagine how others must have tried and failed.

So, you press forward, even as the blade is slick against your skin, and you kiss him. He must be startled, as the force against your neck retreats. However, he stays put, allowing you to kiss him.

Eventually he moves back, other hand still on the armrest of your chair. "Wh-what was that?" He is flushed, face dusted with pink.

You shrug, unable to fully explain yourself. You've just kissed the biggest mobster in the city, after all. "You're very handsome, Oswald," you murmur, almost afraid to say too much. "I guess I do have something to admit. I've liked you for a while. Since I saw you on the television, running for mayor. I just wanted to meet you."

You're afraid he'll react badly again, that the knife will plunge firmly into the crook of your neck, but he just remains still. It seems difficult for him to fully process what you've said. "You... Come now, it has to be something about... the power that's attractive to you-"

In reaction, you just shake your head. "No, I just like you. I like how you talk, what you say. How you look. You're brilliant, and so refined..." Embarrassment drags you under the tide. You stand. "I'm very sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I understand- I'll just leave you alone now."

You're halfway to the exit when Oswald says, "wait." You turn around immediately, and he looks flustered once again, worrying his lip. "I didn't mean- I, I mean, I'm sorry for attacking you... I just haven't... had someone interested in me before." You know that that has to be untrue. "I would like you to stay if you're still interested," he says, finally.

Without hesitation, you walk back to him. His eyes flutter when you crowd into his space, and he reaches for your shoulder of all places. So used to keeping people at a distance. He finally looks back up at you, realizing that you're allowing him control. His other hand goes to your chest, presses against it as if he needs the support. Softly, he presses his lips to yours, almost not even a kiss. The ghost of one, the photo negatives of one, perhaps. When he departs, he inspects you, watches you as if waiting for approval.

"You certainly know how to keep a man wanting more," you joke, and the hand on your shoulder slides down your arm, grasps for your own.

He's blushing. "Come now. I'm taking my time."

You hum, allowing him to settle a little closer against you. With all the talk surrounding him, you could never imagine that Oswald would seem this _small_ against you, all soft hands and freckles. You see now why people have underestimated him so often, mistook him for fragility, for glass. Unbearably soft, unmistakably sharp.

He kisses you again, this time with a force. It is unparalleled. The mighty despair.


End file.
